


Only a Human

by ShadowedSword13



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Feels, Aw Hell He's Scary when he's pissed, Character Study, Custom Trevelyan (Dragon Age), Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Feels, Friendship, Inquisi, Inquisitor & Dorian Pavus Friendship, Laughter, Perspectives, Possible OOC since I'm not as versed as I should be, Rain, Snippets, Swapping Perspectives, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, comfort/hurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26088145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowedSword13/pseuds/ShadowedSword13
Summary: Swapping Perspective of each companions thoughts on their Inquisitor. Starting with Cassandra, I'll be trying to work my way through each of them in a semi-timeline. Written in short-train of thought-snippets separated by linebreaks.___The Inquisitor is known by deed, by legend, by myth and by rumor in Thedas. But to a small group he is known by the rumble of his laughter, the flash of his smile, and the size of his heart.





	1. Cassandra

**Author's Note:**

> Starting off with Cassandra as she considers who and what the Inquisitor is.  
> Male, Sword and Shield Trevelyan

Cassandra

Even chained, he was large, built from stone and mortar and granted life by Andraste’s breathe.

His hand cracks, and the first sound he makes is a groan that seems to make the mountains quake and the stones her boots are standing on sit up and tremble. He sits up, and she learns that his eyes are bluer than the sky and a deeper than the seas.

She swallows, an idle thought wondering if she could manage this man if he wasn’t already exhausted and bound.

But he seems compliant. He rests on his haunches, blinking slowly as he considers the room. His eyes fall upon her, and she must set her scowl more firmly on her lips as she approaches.

He has things to answer for.

* * *

She finds out far too quickly how good he is with a blade.

Though, perhaps more accurate would be to say, how proficient he is as a shield and with one.

The bridge crumbles, the shade rises. And she thinks she has it, fending off blows that leave her arms trembling and her fingers numb. She can handle this. It is only a Shade.

That’s when she hears him, the same deep voice that shook the room has risen to a roar that has her taking a step back, eyes widening in shock as her _prisoner_ tackles the demon, a cracked wooden shield in one hand and a battered sword in the other.

It’s impressive to watch, even if humiliating as she witnesses what must be a six-and-a-half-foot tall man finish off the demon.

His armor is coated in blood though, and he’s panting, shaking even as he rests atop the corpse. It hisses, slowly melting into the ground, leaving him on the cold ice, grip loose and tentative on the weapons he’s scavenged.

She swallows, leveling her blade at him. “Drop your weapon prisoner.”

He doesn’t reply to her command, and instead stands. It’s a monumental effort by the look, heaving his massive body up before turning his too-blue eyes on her.

He stares at her, breathing heavy. It’s like he’s ready for war, coated in demon blood and standing firm on slick ice.

His weapons clatter to the ground, and she’s shocked to see a flash of white teeth before his reply. “If it makes you happy Seeker.”

She feels like he’s mocking her, but that feeling is overshadowed by the guilty as she looks behind her, finding another demon corpse sinking into the ice.

He’d defeated one.

And charged to defend her.

She huffs, shaking her head as she withdraws the blade. “No.” He cocks one brow, and she hates that instead of looking arrogant, he looks considerate and curious.

“Where we are going…” She trails off, “it is no guarantee that I can protect you. I must remember… that you came willingly.”

He bends down, picking up the fallen items. The sword slips easily into a holster, the shield he leaves on his arm, the wooden implement seeming small comparatively.

“If you ask,” He says softly, “then I will drop them again.”

She recognizes that that is supposed to be comforting. But all she can think is how he’d taken a wounded demon to the ground for a woman who truly didn’t need the help. “Perhaps.” She responds, turning her back on him and instead marching up the pass.

She wants to think he won’t.

Part of her knows that he would.

* * *

She finds that she is regretful, watching him waste away on the bed.

He had fought true, and like a warrior, in a way that she wondered if anyone truly did anymore.

Not to say he was perfect in combat. He missed strikes, blocks, had nearly died several times on the way up the pass, as well as in closing the rift. But there was a authenticity in his actions that surprised her as he stepped between blows, putting his bulk between all energies, whether it was for Solas, Varric, or on occasion, even her.

She rose from the stool, finding Lelianna at the door. She smiles, all teeth and no joy in the expression before meandering in. Cassandra relates her movements to an afternoon shadow in some ways- smooth, unnoticed, overlooked until it has grown large enough to loom over you.

“He’s an interesting one.” She murmurs, bringing her fingers to her lips. “He saved quite a few of my men as well in that last fight.”

“But lost quite a few soldiers saving that patrol.” Cassandra reminds.

Lelianna hums at that, neither defending him, nor agreeing with her.

“We shall have to see what he becomes then.”

He will become a warrior.

He will become a hero.

Cassandra scoffs at the thoughts, forcing herself to rise. He may become something; she glances at the body once more, but for now, he is dying. He is dying, clinging to life by the last threads of his will, plagued by something that cannot be due to wounds or pain. He will die from something unseen.

She growls, leaving Lelianna with the man as she stalks out of the room. How unlike the warrior he was.

* * *

He survives.

She tries not to act surprised when he walks into the Chantry.

She tries not to act surprised when he muses that maybe it was providence that granted him the Mark.

She tries not to watch him as he greets his new friends. She’s not sure she succeeds when he looks at her, a smile on his lips and gives them his name.

“Maxwell. I don’t need a title. Just call me Maxwell.”

She scoffs at it then, but perhaps in the privacy of her own room she wonders how a man she’d chained up, dragged through frozen hell and thrown into the front lines had managed to give his captor a smile as easily as that.

She believes.

She has to.

She believes that no mountain can kill this man, because the other alternative is recognizing that someone sent by the Maker had been snuffed out like a candle in the cold winter night.

She clutches the bleeding arm wound, scabbed over and sticky as she stares at the mountain tumbling down on Haven. He had… dropped it.

On himself.

Maker.

Her knees give out, and it’s Varric and Cullen that come to her aid, hoisting her up, screaming for a healer. She wedges her legs back under herself, forcing the muscles to work, the bones to bear weight.

“I’m fine.” But the words sound hollow, false as she speaks them.

Because how can she be fine when he has died. How can she be fine when everything else in the world has twisted so wrongly out of order? How can she be fine when a man she’d convinced herself was unbreakable rose and fell to a monster?

She lets Cullen pull her to camp.

She lets Lelianna go over numbers with her.

She lets Varric poke and prod her, swallowing the barbed retorts with a huff.

“It’s the Herald!”

She’s running.

Sprinting through the snow like a madwoman across the barren wasteland of ice and cold. Cullen is beside her, and how he is managing to do so in such heavy armor, with such a thick mantle is beyond her, but that is a question for another time.

She sees him.

He’s trudging through the snow, honeyed skin looking pale like the snow, and his lips a worrying shade of blue. But his eyes… they still shone bright as he stumbled through the snow towards them.

He collapses into Cullen’s armor, the Commander buckling under the weight before finding the strength, heaving the man up and onto his shoulders.

“Weighs half a Druffalo.” She hears him whisper, gritting his teeth as another soldier aids him.

He returns.

And something in Cassandra’s chest flutters.


	2. Varric Tethras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swapping to Varric's perspective of our Inquisitor

Varric had already taken down Maxwell’s stats for a book he may or may not live to publish regarding the Inquisition. He was willing to bet it would sell like hotcakes, regardless of if everything about the Inquisitor, or Maxwell, as he preferred to be called, was accurate or not.

Varric took some liberties, but it was hard to exaggerate when the man was doing all of it for him.

Case in point.

Now.

Three bandits, all hammering away at Maxwell’s shield while the man took them apart piece by piece, sword flashing out from behind his shield.

Varric squeezes the trigger on Bianca. Two bandits now.

Maxwell notices, even if the bandits did not, and disregarded defense for offense. He roars, startling the remaining pair with that deep roar that belong more to a bear than a human. He rushes forward with the shield, lashing out at one as he passed to bear the other to the ground, crushing him under the weight of steel, flesh and bone.

Varric lets Blackwall and Vivienne finish the straggler up, holstering Bianca as he trots over to the growing legend. The man was covered in blood, and if he was being honest, the dwarf could never tell if it was his, or the people that decided they could fell him.

He looks up, eyes too bright and blue for the carnage he’d just waged. “You alright?” Were perhaps always the first words out of his mouth.

“Eh.” Varric examines the nick on his sleeve, “Ruined my good coat, but I suppose that’s the price I pay for wanting to wear silk.”

There’s a smile that plays at Maxwell’s lips, before he’s turning, checking on Vivienne and Blackwall.

“Everyone alright?”

“Of course, darling.” Vivienne dismisses it with a wave and a roll of her eyes.

“Peachy.” Blackwall hesitates, then adds. “Still trying to figure out how you manage to squeeze behind that shield, but…” He shrugs, his smile smothered by the beard. Varric wonders if he should exaggerate the beard on the man, given he’s got so little else for his character.

Maxwell grins, standing and producing a towel from his pocket, wiping the gore and grim from his face and neck. “Well, I was picked on as a kid for being too big, so I guess I got good at hiding behind things.”

Varric can’t tell if he’s joking or not, but his quill and notebook jot it down just the same.

“Anything else interesting happen in your childhood?” Varric probes.

“Oh, the usual. Kidnapped by mercenaries at eight. Murdered the captain by nine. Took to the seas at ten, shipwrecked by eleven, and rescued by the Fereldans at half that. Then I took a captain’s job at twelve.”

He’s lying, but that sarcasm is still useful, appearing only when it’s him or Sera. Maxwell seems to be a man of many faces, playing to his charms, but never hiding who he was.

He stands his ground, but respects other’s opinions, careful not to tread on them unless he had to. Varric respects that.

“So.” Maxwell mutters, stowing the cloth, which Varric was sure someone had the thought to enchant, given it never changed from its dusty brown hue, no matter how much blood Maxwell mopped up with it. “Any ideas on where the Witchwood is?”

He’d have to exclude how terrible Maxwell was with maps in his book. That might not make for a very good character flaw.

He grimaces as Maxwell slowly rotates the map, humming softly to himself. Blackwall steps forward, and Varric sends up a soft prayer that their Warden friend was better at navigation than their Inquisitor.

* * *

When he first met Maxwell, he was sure the man acted exactly how he fought. Violent, loud, with a passion for drawing attention and giving as good as he got.

Not unlike Iron Bull now that he considered.

What he found surprised him.

Oh, he bantered, he joked, he had all the sass and humor of a mercenary, and he could match and give it out in equal favor, as became apparent in their weekly Wicked Grace.

But when Maxwell eases into the small wooden chair across from him by the fireplace at Skyhold, he knows the man is not a fighter. He glances at Varric for permission before leafing through the pages on the table.

“Writing about us?” He asks, low and calm, as his voice usually is when being private.

Varric shrugs, caught and willing to be. “It’s good material.” He smiles. “Though, I hope it doesn’t turn out to be a tragedy.”

Maxwell took that comment in stride, giving him a flash of teeth and a shrug. “You and me both.” He skimmed through a couple of pages, then frowned, auburn eyebrows furrowing over clear blue eyes. “Giant?”

“You’re six foot. I’m a dwarf.” Varric defends effortlessly.

There is another lapse in silence before a huff. “I guess I do fight like that.”

“Bringing up the question of why might be good character development.”

Varric’s fingers are already tightening around his quill, leisurely reaching out to ink it before returning it to his page. He adjusts himself, meeting Maxwell’s eyes to wait for the exposition.

“I was always big. And my grandfather made a point to make sure I knew it.” He looks uncomfortable with that admission, so Varric makes a note to change it. “He would always say, ‘Maxie, be careful with your friends. You’re stronger than them. You need to protect them with that strength, not hurt them.’”

“The words stuck I take it?”

Maxwell shrugs, something between a smirk and a grimace appearing on his lips. “I guess so. I learned how to defend, not fight. With my body first, how to take a hit, bladed, weighted or otherwise. Then with a shield.”

“Then with a sword?”

“I was never taught how to use a blade.” He confesses, “Just how to stop them.”

Varric snorts, “You picked it up quickly.”

Maxwell’s smile is tight. “Had to.”

And that’s when Varric realizes that Maxwell charges into combat not because he wants to clean house, or murder. It’s because he doesn’t want anyone getting hurt except himself.

“I guess that’s as good a reason as any.” Varric mutters, jotting down the observation as Maxwell leans back in his chair. “Anything else you’d like to divulge?”

“Make sure my character absolutely hates tomatoes.” He says without explanation or preamble.

“Why?”

He smiles. “Because if I’m lucky, someone will read it and send me a basket. I love them.”

And Varric can’t tell if that’s ridiculous, or insightful given all the things Hawk received due to his book.

* * *

He finds out what Maxwell looks like when he’s angry in the worst way possible.

He also finds out why his shield has an edge and his gauntlets nicks and sharp edges.

Cassandra falls.

Charging through the pouring rain on the Crestwood battlements, matching Maxwell step for step on the slick cobblestones as they blocked sword, axe and arrow alike from the cornered highwaymen.

Varric saw it coming.

He sees the shift in their leader’s swing, the crumbling edge of the battlements so close to Cassandra as she advances.

He sees the Seeker’s foot skid towards it as she takes the heavy blow.

And he shouts that same title as she loses balance, tumbling over the edge to the courtyard below. He’s too slow to save her.

His shooting pauses long enough for him to watch. She tumbles, throwing her sword clear, and curling up on her shield. She hits the ground hard.

And doesn’t move.

The thunder roars.

There is no lightning.

A stray thought questions that, but when he turns back to the battle he understands why. There is no thunder. There will be no lightning. It is no force of nature making that terrifying noise.

It’s pouring out of Maxwell.

He’s charged in, burying himself in the five bandits, an arrow stuck in his shoulder. He doesn’t seem to feel the pain, even as an axe bites into his side. He plunges his sword through armor and into flesh. He slices through metal and leather, leaving his sword shoved through an archer’s arm and into his ribs. He rips the axe out of his side and uses it to cleave a man’s head from his chest.

He throws the axe and the man tumbles to the ground below, joining Cassandra. There is no question in his death, not when he lands on the axe, and Varric can see the blade through his back.

Maxwell faces the chieftain, only his hands and shield.

The greataxe swings.

Maxwell catches it on the shield and knocks it aside. Like a blow that sent Cassandra skidding back is nothing.

He’s still screaming.

Varric isn’t sure if he stopped to take a breath or not.

Bianca eases to the ground and he’s vaguely aware that Dorian is no longer flinging spell after spell at their adversaries.

They’re both captive, watching in some sick trace as they watch Maxwell rip the great axe out of the bandit’s hands and throw it over the battlements.

His shield slides off, and Varric can’t find it in himself to turn away as Maxwell bears the man to the ground, driving the edge over and over into the man.

Until the shield buckles, the bloodstone he’d fashioned it from crumpling under the blows. Maxwell tosses it aside, exchanging a blunt steel edge for gauntleted fists.

Until the blood has no chance of being washed away by the rain. He stops then, when Varric is sure the man’s head was more fragmented than whole.

He stands, great chest heaving, arms shaking. He turns to them, and even from ten feet away, through lightning and rain and coated in blood.

Varric can see it.

Maxwell isn’t angry.

That moment has passed.

He’s terrified, bright blue eyes filled with tears.

Varric isn’t sure what scares him more. 

* * *

Cassandra is fine.

Bruised and sore, but after a healing potion or two, and some quick treatment Dorian was only too eager to supply, she’s back on her feet.

Maxwell is still trembling, holding himself together with gritted teeth and swallowed feelings.

Varric can see it.

Even if the others don’t.

They stop for the night, at Maxwell’s insistence. A quick camp set up in the still-wet grass. Dorian dries it with a spell, commenting on the disappearance of the rain.

“Must have been the rift reacting to the lake.” Maxwell remarks, going about setting up not only his tent, but all of theirs.

Varric notices him mother-henning but decides it’s better than watching the man tremble next to the fire, standing and anxiously casting glances at Cassandra every few moments.

It’s not till they retire for the night does Varric pull him aside, off a distance away.

“Kid.”

He swallows, meeting his gaze before looking back to the camp.

“She’s fine.”

He nods, recognizes that fact with a shaky breath. He shakes his head. “I’ve… I’ve never been so scared.”

“That makes you mortal. You like her?”

The look Maxwell gives him is bewilderment, then shock, then exasperation in roughly that order. He shakes his head. “Varric. I…” He swallows. “I’d lose it if any of you got hurt like that. For any of my friends.”

Varric believes him.

“I didn’t have a lot of friends. I was too big. Too strong. I didn’t like the games the other kids liked. I was too quiet at parties my family threw.” He grabs Varric’s shoulders, “Varric. I’m terrified I’ll loss some of the best friends I’ll ever have in my life.”

Fuck.

Varric swallows, feeling his throat close up, tongue feeling too fat a crude to make a reply.

Varric mutters the curse again, shaking his head. “Kid… Maxwell.” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair before turning back to the man, the mountain, that broke only when one of his loved ones was in danger. “With you protecting us, I don’t think even an ArchDemon could touch us without asking your permission first.”

Maxwell nods, shoulders still shaking, eyes still looking frazzled and unfocused, but he nods again. “Right.” He swallows with some difficulty, then squeezes Varric’s shoulder. “I…” he purses his lips. “I’m sorry. I… I said too much.”

Varric claps him on the shoulder. “Nah.” He smiles, watches as the man rebuilds himself, refusing to look weak, not for appearance, but because he doesn’t want to scare his friends. “Friend.”

He says the word, mulls it over in his mouth before repeating it. He’s had friends.

All sorts of friends.

Back alley friends.

Money-bought or brokered friends.

Fair-weather friends that lingered for only a twinkling of an eye before they vanished at the first drop of rain.

He’d had friends he could die fighting for.

He had friends that would die fighting for him.

He supposes he could add Maxwell to that list now as well.


	3. Dorian

Dorian

There are very few things that Dorian enjoys more than openly ogling Maxwell’s sweaty muscled form on the practice field.

Well, he pauses, glancing over to his right, where there is s suspiciously no silver dish with peeled grapes.

He supposes his enjoyment could always be enhanced with the right adjustments.

Perhaps a lack of pants as well?

He hums at that thought, but returns his mind and gaze to the present, peering down from the balcony dear Vivienne so kindly offered to let him, along with a few others, watch Maxwell train.

Dorian flicks his fingers, flames dancing off the tip of each nail as he watches.

Maxwell is sparring with Cullen. Both men are subject to the heat of the day, sun beating down on bare skin, pulling sweat onto muscled backs and sore arms.

Dorian hums appreciatively as Cullen forces Maxwell back a step, making the man struggle, the muscles in his back straining as he repels their Commander’s force.

It’s a lovely dance, and while Dorian suspects Maxwell is straight as an arrow and there’s not a chance he’d change targets so to speak, he has made no qualm about Dorian’s position on it.

So, Dorian called it fair to ogle then.

“Enjoying the view darling?” Vivienne mocks from the window.

“Oh bother.” He replies. “If you’re going to mock, come join me and stare. There’s much to be appreciated.”

Vivienne cocks one beautiful eyebrow at him, but joins him at the balcony, nevertheless. She hums, tone conveying disinterest even as she braces herself against the railing. “I suppose it’s adequate.”

“Large muscles and smiling faces not do it for you?” Dorian quips. Maxwell’s put Cullen’s advance on hold, instead pressing the ex-templar back with sheer might.

“No comment.”

That peaks Dorian’s interest, something that might bother the ice queen Vivienne? Oh, he had to get something juicy out of this.

“How has our fair Inquisitor been treating you; might I ask?” He prods. “I heard he took you to the Coast for a quick jaunt through some lovely Templar.”

Vivienne hums. “Yes, I suppose he did.” There’s a dreadful pause, and Dorian fears he’ll have to prod some more before, “I find that he’s quite… vicious on the battlefield, though gentle elsewhere. I suspect he’d make a wonderful player of The Game.”

“There is that ball coming up.” Dorian considers that for a moment. “I do hope he intends to bring us. I can only imagine the ruckus bringing the others might do.”

“Indeed, imagine the damage someone such as Sera might cause at an event like such.” She visibly cringes. “It would be irreparable to the Inquisitions’ reputation.”

“Quite.” Dorian flexes, letting his fingers comb through his hair, then his mustache before rising. “I suppose I might do them a kindness and not stare so openly.” He mutters, glancing back at them.

“And why stop now? You’ve been out here for ten minutes.”

“Because he’s waving.”

There’s a pause, then a swivel of Vivienne’s head before she abruptly stalks back into her area, leaving Dorian to wriggle his fingers back.

Maxwell looks every sort of amused possible, but the cocked eyebrow that Cullen has adopted makes him wonder if there will be some explaining to do.

Likely not. Cullen is a made of few words, and a strong believer in avoiding possibly awkward situations.

Good on him.

* * *

“What can I do for your masculine muscles today Maxwell?” Dorian doesn’t need to turn around, he can identify the Inquisitor by the tromp of his boots up the stairs and the ache in his legs that tell him he might need to run.

There’s a strange fight-or-flight sensation Dorian associate with Maxwell after the whole Crestwood incident. Not an experience he’d like to relive anytime soon.

Or ever. Actually.

“I’m planning on heading out to Emprise du Lion, thought you might like to step out of Skyhold for a jaunt through the wilderness.”

Dorian cocked an eyebrow. “Who else are you bringing?”

A shrug, “I’ll need another person up front drawing heat, so either Bull or Blackwall, though I’m leaning towards Blackwall. Then either another mage, or maybe Varric. I’ll need that range.” Maxwell hummed once, considering as he leaned back against the railing.

“I’d suggest Bull, but I’m biased. Varric wouldn’t be unwelcome in my opinion.”

There’s a devilish smirk on Maxwell’s lips as he suggests, “Perhaps Sera?”

Dorian fixes him with a glare. “I think we both know that wouldn’t end well.”

Maxwell smiles, blue eyes twinkling like some saint conjured into existence, mixed with a devil of a sense of humor. He groans, rolling his eyes and stalking back to his chair.

“Fine!” He barks out. “Bring whoever the hell you want. Just…” He faces him, wriggling on finger before huffing and shaking his head. “Hell with it.” He plopped down in his chair, angrily snatching up a book. “You’ll pick who you like.”

That evening, as Dorian saddled up a bag of his things, as well as a book he’d finally found in the library that wasn’t written by an illiterate twat, he found Varric and Blackwall waiting at the doors for him.

He hums, smiling as he looks at his companions.

“Did you groom your beard for this Blackwall? My my, I should have given you some oil. I even brought an extra comb to share.”

The Warden narrows his eyes, glancing down at Varric. Then back up at him. “You touch my beard…”

“And we’re going.” Maxwell’s hand slaps onto Blackwall’s shoulder, easing the Warden along before a fight can break out.

Dorian smiles, a trickle of laughter sneaking out as he adjusts his pack, following the warriors, a dwarf beside him.

“So, Sparkler…”

This is good enough. There might not be Bull, but there was enjoyable company, a healthy sense of wit between all of them, and a plethora of things to tease them all about.

Including a lovely little rumor, he’d just heard about the Inquisitor.

* * *

“When you invited me on a lovely jaunt through the wilderness, you neglected to mention that said jaunt would be more of a slog through red templar bastards.” Dorian hisses out, wrapping his overcoat more tightly around his arms.

Maxwell smirks, giving him a look before replying, “Then perhaps you should pay more attention during war counsels. Emprise du Lion has the main red lyrium mine that’s supplying our friends.”

Dorian casts a suspicious gaze at Blackwall, who nods, confirming that must have been one of the meetings he missed all together, or had been adjusting his hair in.

Prices to pay for being meticulously groomed.

Speaking of which.

“Blackwall.”

There’s a pause as Maxwell gets moving again, leading there team through a cave system. Red lyrium juts out of the rock at odd angles, but Maxwell is distracted, marking bits of dawnstone for later requisition and a smattering of bloodstone.

“I might regret this… but what?”

“What’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever eaten?”

“My horse’s saddle.” Maxwell chimes in, and Dorian has to rip his head away from the most amusing expression Blackwall has ever made to see Maxwell’s straight face.

“I beg your pardon?”

Varric’s produces his little notebook, one eyebrow cocked and looking more interested than he could be in anything else.

“I went on a trip once when I was younger, week ride out, we were ambushed. We fought off the bandits, but they took our provisions.” Maxwell explains.

“And this had you eating a horse’s saddle because?” Blackwell prompted.

“Leather is edible, and I can use a shield. Not a bow.”

There’s a long-suffering silence as Blackwall and Dorian exchange looks.

“Three-year-old hard tack.” Blackwall supplies. “You can’t even scrap the blue off. It just lives there.”

“Hm.”

“Banter on hold. Templar ahead.” Maxwell interrupts, his sword sliding free from its holster. “Though I suppose if you to really want to continue, me and Varric can handle it.”

“And miss what’s worse than three-year-old hard tack? Boss, I’ll back you up, but some things I just can’t miss.” Varric replies, even as he unlimbers Bianca.

“Right. Fight now. Talk later.” He glances at Dorian. “Sparkler.”

“Hairy Lumux.”

They nod, some form of truce established as Maxwell charges in, once again managing to hide the mass of his bulk behind his newly forged Everite shield.

Dorian is desperately hoping he doesn’t find a way to break this one. Which means he should probably help Blackwall out and cast a barrier.

Stench didn’t translate from target to castor, did it?

* * *

“Anything I want?” Maxwell asks, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he stares down the demon.

Dorian is exchanging a look with Blackwall again, both gripping their weapons tightly. Magic crackles at his fingertips, restrained by one tight look from Maxwell. Varric is shifting slowly, easing his way up the steps for a height advantage as Maxwell steps a bit closer.

“Anything at all. Power? Wealth?” There’s a pause. “Virgins?”

“Inquisi-“Maxwell throws out a hand to silence Blackwall.

His stance is relaxed as he finally walks up to the demon, letting his hand rest on the hilt of his sword.

“Well. I’m the Inquisitor. So, I have both power and wealth.” He pauses, inspecting the demon. “And I’m sure if I truly leveraged my status, as disgusting as it may be, I could…” his lips wrinkle and his brow furrows. “find the later…” And the venom that’s put into the last three words surprises Dorian.

“Other options?” The demon prods.

Maxwell brightens. “Certainly.” He glances back at Varric, then Blackwall and Dorian. “I just need you to destroy all the red lyrium in Thedas, host a Grand Tourney for my Warden friend, mend a relationship between father and son and restore most of Tevinter to its former glory and open minds and hearts there in such a way they become an example for Thedas as a whole community as opposed to a superpower,” there’s a potent pause as Maxwell turns his gaze back to Imshael. “And make every person I’ve ever killed for this stupid war alive and well.”

Gobsmacked would be a good word for the demon’s expression.

Adequate, if not for the demonic proportion that Imshael’s jaw drops, down to his knees at Maxwell’s request.

And Dorian supposes that, if a demon can do all that, then it might be worth letting this one live.

“Well, I uh. I suppose that.” Imshael stutters, wringing his hands together as he adjusts. “I could…”

“Oh.” Maxwell straightens up, drawing his sword. “And I have a friend that’s very uncomfortable with demons. So. You could die while you’re at it.”

The blade flashes, slicing through skin and bone.

Maxwell slams the shield into the demon’s chest, and the body slaps floor, blood oozing out of its neck. Then it straightens, body morphing as it rises.

“You’ve made a mistake Inquisitor.”

Maxwell laughs, but the sound is bitter, and it makes Dorian shiver. “I’ve made plenty of mistakes demon. But killing you will never be one of them.”

* * *

They’re panting, well, Dorian is panting. Varric is lying on the snow-covered cobblestones, blood on his face and opening wheezing out what Dorian thinks is a laugh. Blackwall is slumped against the railing, sword and shield dropped on the ground as he tries to catch his breath.

Maxwell is standing over Imshael’s corpse, considering the body. He toes it with his boot, and even though his chest is heaving, chainmail straining with each breath that fills that mighty, glorious chest, he’s quiet.

“Everything… alright… Inquisitor?” Varric puffs, gathering up a clump of snow and using it to wipe his face clean.

The dwarf still doesn’t rise, seeming to enjoy the coolness of the snow, and Dorian can’t blame him. The fight… the raging battle, had been intense. Maxwell had suffered the worst, yet the man still stood, calmly examining the corpse of the demon that had promised him everything.

That thought leads to another, and Dorian eases his head up, “Maxwell dear, might I pose a question.”

“I only ate the saddle cause I wanted to keep my boots.” He replies.

Dorian pauses, mind whirling as he tries to process the words that just left the beautiful, possibly troubled man. Then he shakes his head, tabling those thoughts for later. “No no no. The demon.”

Maxwell steps away, shuffling his feet back towards them. He joins Blackwall leaning against the railing, “Yes?”

“He promised you anything you wanted.”

“Money.” Varric mutters.

“Women.” Blackwall adds.

“Anything.” Dorian stresses. “And you choses…. Things for us.”

Maxwell shrugs. “What have I done to deserve anything?” He asks. A wry smile teases the corners of his lips. “I didn’t leave my homeland into a foreign country. I didn’t join a fight that I had a choice to not. I didn’t offer myself up because the world needed one extra Warden.” He smiles. “I just ended up with a mark on my hand and everyone decided to follow me. I didn’t do anything incredible.” He shrugs. “Seemed more fitting to ask for things you wanted.”

“And to raise the ones you kill.” Varric puts in.

Dorian almost misses it. It’s such a subtle thing. The quirk of Maxwell’s lips, but he’d already been staring at them, hoping for a flash of teeth, a spurt of laughter that Maxwell can always seem to pull in the bleakest of moments.

It’s not there today.

There’s a flash of sadness, regret. A flex of his jaw before his lips press thin into a forced smile.

“A lot of people would still be alive without this war.” He supplies, like that answers everything.

And maybe it does.

Dorian groans, leaning back into the snow.

“Go throw the damn flag up so we can get someone here that is willing to fetch me wine and fruit and start a roaring fire that I can curl up on and get warm.”

He doesn’t have the mind to discuss would-bes and might-have-beens. He just killed a demon that offered him everything. Well. He just killed a demon that offered Maxwell everything, and the only thing Maxwell seemed to ask for was everything for them.

Dorian shook his head.

Damn him for being straight.

He glanced at Maxwell as the man walked by, Inquisition flag in hand.

Damn him even more for how that ass looks in those chaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because let's be fair. Dorian would openly ogle the ass of a male inquisitor.


End file.
